The Chancellor Manuscript Read Free Page A

about.… All right, maybe I can’t come up with documentation, but I’m not going to throw away two years’ work. I’m not going to stop because a committee tells me I’m academically unacceptable. Sorry, but
that’s
unacceptable.”
    And that’s what we had to know. At the last, would you cut your losses and walk away? Others thought you would, but I didn’t. You knew you were right, and that’s too great a temptation in the young. We must now render you impotent
.
    St. Claire looked down at Peter and held his eyes. “You’re in the wrong arena. You sought acceptance from the wrong people. Seek it elsewhere. Where matters of truth and documentation are not important.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “Your dissertation is filled with some rather splendidly imagined fiction. Why not concentrate on that?”
    “What?”
    “Fiction. Write a novel. No one cares whether a novel is accurate, or has historical authenticity. It’s simply not important.” St. Claire once again leaned forward, his eyes steady on Chancellor. “Write fiction. You may still be ignored, but at least there’s a chance of a hearing. To pursue your present course is futile. You’ll waste another year, or two, or three. Ultimately, for what? So write a novel. Spend your outrage there, then go about your life.”
    Peter stared at the diplomat; he was at a loss, uncertain of his thoughts, so he merely repeated the single word. “Fiction?”
    “Yes. I think we’re back to that malfunctioning carburetor, although the analogy may be terrible.” St. Claire settled back in his chair. “We agreed that words held no great fear for you; you’ve seen blank pages filled with themmost of your life. Now, repair the work you’ve done with other words, a different approach that eliminates the necessity of academic sanction,”
    Peter exhaled softly; for several moments he had held his breath, numbed by St. Claire’s analysis. “A
novel?
It never crossed my mind.…”
    “I submit it may have unconsciously,” interjected the diplomat. “You didn’t hesitate to invent actions—and reactions—when it served you. And God knows you have the ingredients of a fascinating story. Farfetched, in my opinion, but not without merit for a Sunday afternoon in a hammock. Fix the carburetor; this is a different engine. One of less substance, perhaps, but conceivably quite enjoyable. And someone may listen to you. They won’t in this arena. Nor, frankly, should they.”
    “A novel. I’ll be damned.”
    Munro St. Claire smiled. His eyes were still strangely noncommittal.
    The afternoon sun disappeared below the horizon; long shadows spread across the lawns. St. Claire stood at the window, gazing out on the quadrangle. There was an arrogance in the serenity of the scene; it was out of place in a world so locked in turbulance.
    He could leave Park Forest now. His job was finished, the carefully orchestrated conclusion not perfect but sufficient unto the day.
    Sufficient unto the limits of deceit.
    He looked at his watch. An hour had passed since the bewildered Chancellor had left the office. The diplomat crossed back to his desk, sat down, and picked up the telephone. He dialed the area code 202 and then seven additional digits. Moments later there were two clicks over the line, followed by a whine. For any but those aware of the codes the sound would have simply signified a malfunctioning instrument.
    St. Claire dialed five more digits. A single click was the result, and a voice answered.
    “Inver Brass. Tape is rolling.” In the voice was the flat
a
of Boston, but the rhythm was Middle-European.
    “This is Bravo. Patch me through to Genesis.”
    “Genesis is in England. It’s past midnight over there.”
    “I’m afraid I can’t be concerned with that. Can you patch? Is there a sterile location?”
    “If he’s still at the embassy, there is, Bravo. Otherwise it’s the Dorchester. No guarantees there.”
    “Try the embassy, please.”
    The line